Bleeding
by humanveil
Summary: Sooner or later, you know you'll bleed out. - Elliot's POV. Hint of EO. Pre s12e24.


**A/N: I'm a sick person and Elliot being sad brings me joy. Also, there's a little hint of EO, because, you know, it's** ** _me_** **. Make sure to let me know what you thought!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own them**

 **x**

You're sitting in an uncomfortable chair, eyes moving aimlessly around a small, colourless room. You're in trouble with IAB, again, and now the department is forcing you to have a psych evaluation. You had argued and protested, but there was no escaping it. Eventually, you'd had to suck it up and go.

Still, you don't want to be here.

Huang sits across from you, staring like he always does in these situations. You've been here for around twenty minutes, and neither of you have said anything. He's trying to read you, you know, but you don't think it's working. You've grown pretty good at hiding your emotions from people, Olivia excluded.

Finally, he opens his mouth to ask the first question, and the words make you want to laugh.

"What does working in SVU feel like?"

You smile, but there's no humour or happiness to it, just a bitter sense of cynicism. It's a stupid question, completely ridiculous. Obviously it makes you feel like shit. You've never expected the job to bring you any kind of joy; you accepted the position knowing exactly what you would be dealing with every day.

You're not sure how to answer. You know he's going to make whatever you say into a bigger deal than what it actually is.

You've had this conversation with Olivia before. A few times over the years, actually. It had always been late at night, when your lips were looser than they usually are. The first time she had asked you, you'd replied quickly, simply stating; "Like bleeding."

She had been confused, until you explained it, and then she'd understood. Understood like no one else would ever be able to understand.

Working at SVU was like having a wound. Like having a long, deep cut that ran against your skin, scarring you.

When you're working, it's like you're bleeding. A little, or a lot, it doesn't really matter. The point is, when you're at work, it's like there's a steady flow of warm crimson running down your skin. A flow of blood that can't be stopped or patched up, because every time you try to cover it, it stings. It stings and it burns, like a constant reminder that it's there. To make matters worse, the constant presence of the sting will always prompt an itch, an itch that you can't help but feel, that you can't ignore.

Eventually, you'll scratch. You'll pick the scab. You'll peel the skin away, the bandages; you'll remove whatever's stopping the flow. And once you start, you won't be able to stop. The more you scratch, the worse it gets. Scratching doesn't make the itch go away, it just worsens the wound, increases the blood flow, inevitably making it harder to patch up the next time.

You know some people think it's better to heal the wound. Olivia does, anyway. She tells you that you can't live like that, always bleeding, says that it'll drive you mad. She's right, too. Probably. She usually is.

Yet, you still think it's better to bleed. Bleeding means you don't have to experience the bloody sting of realisation each time your eyes play witness to the horrors of the world – of rapists and killers and child abusers. Covering the wound, trying to make it better, to make it go away, only makes the next case worse. It doesn't matter how much you think you're beginning to heal, you know something will eventually happen, like it always does – a new case, a dead child, _reasonable doubt_ – and any progress you managed to make will be for nothing.

You'll start bleeding again. You won't be able to stop scratching, to stop picking, and soon enough one wound will multiply and you'll be left a bloody, bruised mess. You know that trying to heal your wounds will leave you with more cuts than bleeding will.

Sooner or later, you know you'll bleed out.

It already feels like you are, if you're honest with yourself. The blood will continue to flow, and you stopped trying to halt it a long, long time ago, because it only ever made it worse.

It's like you're swimming, struggling to stay afloat in a sea of your own blood. It's like you're drowning, like no matter what you do, you'll never get enough air in your lungs. It's like no matter how hard you try, your own blood will fill your body until you cease to exist.

You think it might be too late to be saved. It's like Olivia is the only force strong enough to pull you away from the never ending stream of blood, yet you don't have the strength to reach a hand out and signal for help.

Your blank eyes settle on Huang's expectant face, and you have no idea how to put it in words. Your fingers tap against the arm of the chair you're sitting in, and you turn your head to the side, sighing. Eventually, you open your mouth to mutter a reply.

"I don't feel anything."


End file.
